"The Legend of Ael: Celtic" by Jermaine Leroy Joseph

2:

He left them lying by the remains of a stunted tree, long since broken in cold winds. He had even gone so far as to leave them a parting gift, making them younger, easing their pains. Why not? He had done worse to them, broken them worse than he had ever done before. Was it the mention of the things in his attic that had made him so prone to the old rage, not felt for months? Maybe, he thought. It was a possibility he was not ready to discount. It was because of this that he had stood for a moment in deep thought, looking at the shroud that warbled before him like some strange horizon. There was something at work in this world, indeed in all worlds, that he had not yet begun to understand, yet felt he must before his time in Kartha was over. Beyond this lay Sarah, and the man he had come to see, indeed kill. Beyond lay a village that sat surrounded by swamp and ruin, a smaller cousin to the city further on. Beyond lay a temple, and a rose, and possibly the gate that might allow him to leave this land. Yet none of this was paramount in his lightning quick mind. Instead he wondered on something else that had constantly been babbled in warning, in fear and in some strange reverence.
Beyond, lay the Wild.
Oh, he had tried to envision such a thing, that nature, and not a creature could be so dominantly present in evil. But that such a force could be raging war on the people of Kartha was unbelievable. Yet, looking upon the plains behind him, he saw signs that perhaps even Krine had left this world for gone, aware that another presence was willing to rent and destroy in its absence. And, the fact that some magic was still at work in the world showed that something still drove the planet and its people to try to salvage their world. Narrowing his grey eyes, Celtic turned away from the plains and faced the shroud again. From what he had gleaned from the old man the shroud was not magic. It was a barrier held in place by the old sciences. Technology, as the boy knew it. The sort of thing that had made his Gameboy possible and his laptop. Technology held this mirage in place and if Celtic was right then a step through such a shroud would reveal the world beyond, as it should be. He was not usually prone to admittance but, in the dark recesses of his mind, he feared what might lay ahead. It was not an uncommon emotion for him, not at all, yet since the attic there had been few things that had kept him awake at night bar thoughts of his past. Now he was worried – no, frightened – by the possibility he might see something from his past. From before.
“There’s vampires in the attic and they can be mighty mean.” He muttered, eyeing his hands. Would his magic, the Light of Ael be sufficient protection against what lay ahead, and what lay behind? The laws of Ael were tricky, alright. They weren’t really vampires. But they looked that way. Frowning, the boy bent, picked up a stone and pegged it into the warbling shimmer. Without even the faintest sound the stone vanished into, and then through the shroud. He nodded and shrugged. He had expected no less. He’d seen something of the like in Doctor Who once. He could do with such a person to help him now. One mistake could spell the end of all. “Something’s in the attic, not that I can see.” With a shudder, he thought of a book he had read once, though he didn’t know the name. A book where they had gone into the cupboard to another world, full of snow. This was like this, alright. Too much. He just could not remember how it ended.
With a tightening of his mind, and a screwing up of his resolve, the boy flicked his hand towards the shroud and sent a flurry of crazed winds, full of lightning that disintegrated, into the glimmer. Illusion or not, what lurked on the other side might be waiting for him. What lurked -
(Vampires, Zombies, even the Bogeyman. Maybe even Santa Claus with a sack full of knives to pinch and pull, and tear and rip. Lurking-)
- Inside the distant future might be a match for him. For now, he could not even afford to think on how Sarah fared. He had to survive to be of any help to anyone.
With a manic grin spread on his face, hands held out, Celtic went into the shroud.
As soon as he passed through he could tell he had entered a swamp. The heat rapidly rose in a matter of seconds making him take off his hoody and tie it around his waist. His first though was that he had passed into hell but he was disabused as soon as his adjusted to the darkness. Although it had begun to brighten outside the shroud, beyond was nothing short of pitch, giving the feeling of swimming in darkness. Oh, he was sure that the place had been called other things but it was, nonetheless, as it seemed. A swamp more dishevelled than anything he had seen. A haven for this thing called the Wild. By rote, Celtic spread his hands and a stave of pure light appeared between his curled fingers almost immediately. It was just an assurance against what he felt must come, but it made him feel safer all the same. Nothing that touched the staff bar him would live, not if he did not wish it. Stepping back one step and taking a last final look at the blasted land of Kartha, the boy took a deep breath and gathered his strength before entering the swamp once more. It seemed that the old man had been right, he realised. Something worse that Krine had siphoned the life from this world. It was, like the man that had once chased him, hidden by a mask. One that did Kartha little favours. He wondered how long it had taken for the Wild – for it was nothing else, he admitted – to stretch so far from the city. Reluctantly the boy ran a hand through his black hair and began to walk, making his careful way down the twisted Wild driven trail.
The boy knew it would be slippery, of that it had been obvious. The trail seemed a massive slope of rock and cracked smooth stone, a path that seemed more like some deranged theme park ride than a place meant for men to walk, let alone twelve year old kids. As he picked his way cautiously, his balance precarious, he found himself rueful of all the things that had chanced upon him since his arrival. Never had he seen a slope of jutting glass, leading to a marshland that fair reeked even now, so high up. It was harder going than he had expected, all the same, and no matter how much he tried he ended up stumbling five times before he reached some semblance of level ground, skinning his side in the process. Not bothering to waste energy healing himself completely, Celtic stood a moment admiring the puckered grazes that had closed with Ael fire. Not scars, true, but had he been in school it would have been the envy of so many people. With a shrug, he looked about and winced. He was sure he wasn’t about to fall to his death but it didn’t matter. The Gord chooses whether the land will die, the man had said upon fainting, and the boy wondered if that was true. Whatever had caused Kartha’s demise had been a malevolent force, nonetheless. And he believed that nature had had a role in the play that had unfolded, years back. Even in the dim, Celtic could discern trees that moved as though clawing at him, the wind howling through their twisted boughs with a sound alike crying. Cry all you want but trees don’t eat people. The boy shuddered and used the staff like a beacon to pierce the dark. At least not where I come from. For a few minutes he stood, testing the air to see if he was right. And yes, he found; he was. There was a force in this swamp that watched him intently, and seemed to swell throughout the whole land before him. Not the land itself, no. But close enough.
Almost without knowing he would, the boy threw his rucksack to the sharp edged floor, careful to drop down upon it when he sat. Beyond here lay his tasks, true. Through the Wild, and no other way. But did it also hold some other prospect for him? In silence Celtic sat, his stave cradled in his arms and wondered what he had to do next.
He was asleep before he knew he’d even closed his eyes.
He dreamed of a field that stretched for miles, a darkness draped over it like the curtain over the final scene of a play. And as he watched in abstract fascination, he supposed it was. There was something about the field that spoke of something imminent, something also long past. It was something that seemed at once familiar, and full of doom. A feeling that perverted his mind with fear, like he’d felt in the attic. All at once he found himself thinking, Good God, this is how I’ll feel at the end. Fear like in the attic but a thousand times worse. And there’ll be a bed, for sure, where something with wet hands will grab me over the headboard. Holy toasted popsicles, how can I keep going toward such fear? Almost, he could imagine that he could smell dry foliage, though the fields looked to be in the throes of summer. The smell of musty leaves on a cold November night, blown awry by angry zephyrs, hiding the approach of the thing that had followed from the closet. Realising that he seemed to be beyond physical limits, outside his body so to speak, Celtic focussed his thoughts, imagining that he had eyes and that they were shut tight against cold winds. When he opened them he stood within the expanse of the field, corn surrounding him on every side like some natural blanket. For an instant he felt smothered and then, smiling slightly at his stupidity, the boy began to stroke the corn, to see if it was real. It felt real enough.
If this was a dream or a nightmare, either one, then it was the strangest he’d ever had.
Hesitantly, he took two steps and then two more… and was shocked to find himself on a busy road, people wandering to and fro with black briefcases and their long coats trailing in the cold winds. It was cold, he noticed of a sudden. Frightfully so. With a chuckle, the Light of Ael tugged his own coat – coat? I had no coat! – about him and looked about, turning and wondering what he would see. Just across the traffic lights, and the road, the cornfields stretched away like the plains of Kartha. For an instant he wondered how he had gotten across the road, and then he had to move out of the way of a man that looked like he would walk right through him. Shrugging, his face breaking into a wide smile because it was good to be back in a city, oh so good, Celtic began to walk, his mind laughing about the fact it had no idea where his legs were leading him.
The road was not long, but seemed to stretch away from him each time he seemed to be nearing a point he felt he had already walked past. Nevertheless he kept on smiling. It was hard not to. For the first time in ages he felt like he was back home, on Earth. And who was to say he wasn’t?
Finally reaching the corner, he took a right marked by a sign that named the road as Rose Lane, his grin a permanent fixture as though he expected a surprise party just about the corner, complete with pointed cone hats and multi-coloured party favours. Weaving through people with apologies to those he bumped into in his haste, the boy almost forgot about the cornfields. Almost forgot everything he knew about Ael. Until, that was, he turned out of a faint curiosity and saw the fields behind him. Then everything came crashing back about his life, and of Ael, for a while at least, until he turned away again, and the memory would fade. Sometimes, it was not behind him, and he had the impression the corn hid behind the corner of Rose Lane, peeking about, seemingly playing hide and seek. But more often than not, it was right behind him, though none of those that passed him realised they had entered a field, which seemed strange enough. Yes, often it seemed to sneak up on him as though trying to eat his Air Max trainers, and he would hurry his pace with worry worming away at his mind. And still the road stretched ahead from him, seeming to widen in laughter at his haste. Either way, all his thoughts cleared of fear when he came at last and with a sudden unexpectedness to a crossroads. To his left was St. Christopher Street; a ponderous road of pocked gravel, seeming to have no support underneath its pavements. Ahead, Rose Lane became… he took a step closer and found himself five steps more towards the sign post. Rose Lane became Mirage Circle the sign intoned, and ahead he could see a gathering of people in a circle of buildings, cheering, seemingly, though he couldn’t place the words. The barest instant came where he wondered what was going on. And then he understood, It’s the procession, it is. Coming down from Rider’s Walk, as always, parading the coming of the Cold. Nodding to himself with a frown overcoming his grin, the boy turned to see where the right led and then his grin returned. Krine Street. Looking left down St. Christopher, he decided that he would take the turn right. He had never been down Krine Street, and besides, the Procession of the Cold would not reach Rose Lane till the gathering passed the Walk. Laughing, unsure what he meant or how he knew, the boy glanced behind him and then at the sign. It shivered in the winds.
His father had always warned him against Krine Street, he said it was a dark path, the old man in him talking obviously. With a shrug, Celtic began to walk, his speed increasing, his pace finally taking him past tall banks and other business buildings, one catching his eye by the name of Kartha National. Carefree, he made his way over the traffic lights marking an intersection and barely avoided getting run over. About to shout out something, the boy turned and saw he had reached the end of Krine Street, and that there had been no car. Shrugging away his worry about the almost casual disappearance of the cornfields – The corn is scared. It would not pass the coming Cold, nor come down this path, he thought – Celtic raised his head and gazed at the grey black stone of the building that dominated his sight. In gilt letters the building was pronounced to be The Library. Something had been scrawled underneath on a white plaque, but since it seemed faded with wear, Celtic opened the heavy doors tentatively. Moving inwards with ease, the dark oaken doors revealed what lay beyond and he gasped.
It was a library, to be sure. But its many shelves rose higher than five men even though the building had not seemed so large outside. And instead of books they housed horrors of horrors, things that even made Celtic balk. But of course, he thought. I’m just a boy. Faces leered at him and some seemed to move, their mouths full of serrated teeth and bristling with spine like hairs. Far in the distance he was certain he could see a door, and he frowned, trying to pierce the shadows covering the portal as he backed slowly away. It was the sort that would be locked, he felt. It was…
There came a tap at his shoulder and he jumped when he saw that it was a pretty girl, about five years older than him, her green eyes locking onto his with a twinkle. Sighing in relaxation, he decided of a sudden that the faces were just an attraction, like masks. It was a library for masks.
“Can I help you?” She asked; a smile on her face that made him sweat of a sudden. It was almost as though she was looking into him, or through him, and was pleased by something. Gulping, Celtic felt himself nod, his mind screaming at him FOOL. He had a feeling that this was…
“I’d like to know where I am, please.” He tried to smile and failed when he saw that her pencil skirt seemed too black. “I was looking for…” he frowned. His mind began to babble at him. “Looking for Rider’s Walk though I’m mighty scared of the approaching Cold. It’s coming fast, it is.” The girl nodded, her hair, seeming almost spun gold swinging about her pretty face. Pretty…? No, she’s gorgeous! Shivering, and trying to walk past her, he noticed that she had no name tag. “Do you work here, lady?” If anything her smile widened, as though expecting him to recognise her.
“No, but I do know where you are. You’re right to be scared of the Cold. It comes fast now, and has almost arrived.” She leaned down to him. “Welcome to the temple, love.” Something about that comment made his mind reel. “If you find something you like, don’t hesitate to come to me.” She paused and stood straight, grimacing, her eyes becoming hard but her mouth somehow still lush and seeming to be smiling. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Celtic.” With a yell Celtic began running for the door in the shadows of the shelves, her laughter following behind him.
Still yelling, Celtic raised his head from his lap, where it had luckily fallen as he slept. Stopping his cry short, the boy looked about him with weary eyes and shuddered, bits and pieces of the dream coming to him. It would take too long to puzzle everything out but he figured that the woman had been an emissary of the nightmare. Krine Street? What had possessed him enough to make him go down a road by such a name? Was it youth? Perhaps, he admonished but his age could take no blame and neither could ignorance. A dark path, indeed; a very dark path. That way lay madness and worse. He was a knight of Ael, and better still, he was Ael in some way he still failed to understand. How had the darkness gotten into his dreams and mind? Tightening his grip on the stave, Celtic stood slowly, stretching his back. He would think on the way. Eyeing his route deeper into the swamp, the boy hefted the stave before him and picked his way forwards.
He puzzled over the corn. He could understand that it could be a sign of the lands of Kartha, left behind in its barren doom. But that, in turn, would mean that choices lay before him that he did not think were the sort you would get at an ice cream truck. No, the lane, though he forgot its name, was a path in his life that signalled that his quest would seemingly only lengthen. And hard times seemed to lay ahead. Yet, he knew better than to try to interpret his dreams without someone else to consult. What he really wished to understand was the temple.
A place of many horrors, if his dream was to be believed, and childhood horrors at that, judging from the reaction he’d no control over. But who was the girl? Even now he could not rid himself of the sight of her face. She had to have been the most stunning person he had met. Did she lay ahead? He hoped not. There had been something about her that made his skin crawl as he walked, his eyes watching everywhere at once. And as for the door… well, he would deal with that in time. But the Procession of the Cold will be much too close then, and none can be bare to it. He frowned and slowed his pace. Yes, he understood such a thing all too well. Death lay ahead. Of that he was certain. Shivering, he began to wonder how he was to proceed and then realised that he had no idea. Muttering to himself, the boy continued on, glad that he was slight and small, low under the branches of the manic moving trees. He had the feeling that everything would become all to clear soon.
About five miles from where he had entered, Celtic came upon his first sign that he was close to somewhere related to his quest. A statue had reared up suddenly to his right – the direction of Krine Street, he kept himself from saying aloud – and he had only noticed when he had stopped to rest awhile, his head lowered in deep thought. He had seen the shape by luck, its form hidden by three weeping willows that looked to be hiding the statue. If anything, the trees in this swamp made the boy more worried than thoughts of the Wild itself. Although, as of yet, he had seen or heard nothing that had tried to threaten him, that did not necessarily mean nothing would come, since he knew it would. What the ‘it’ was, even he was unsure of, and that, in turn, made him unsure of himself. It was due to this that he had not yet approached the statue. He wondered what it was a statue of, anyway. Was it of an animal perhaps, or maybe one of the many horrors from his dream?
With a disgruntled smirk, he looked about him and shuddered. Something was watching him, and had been for the last two miles. He had heard it first, and then he had seen a fleet moving shadow. Nothing that could threaten him, as he told himself constantly, but it was a presence all the same. Something that seemed to be intrigued by him, and by his steady trek in the direction he had begun to think of as Never-East.
For some reason, this suited him just fine. At least he’d know when he got too near to the temple. If it was some guardian of this swamp, as he thought, then it would likely appear when he came too close.
Shrugging away his indecisions, the boy stood, using the stave to lever himself up, his eyes casting about the shaded suppression of the swamp. He had the feeling that perhaps he would have to walk down a semblance of his dreams Krine Street sooner or later, regardless of his virtues. Pushing back strands of hair stuck to his forehead with perspiration, Celtic frowned as he looked about and made his way to the statue. What he saw shocked him.
There, only slightly higher than he stood, was the stone figure of a hooded person, their hand holding aloft a golden light long since dull to eyes that looked on from afar. A stave alike his own was in the stone hand, held almost like a talisman to ward off evil. And there, at the feet of the statue was another figure. A woman that seemed pretty despite the obvious throes of agony depicted on her obsidian features, stick lay discarded by her limp hands. But what caught at Celtic’s attention happened to be the almost frightening similarities between himself and the stone figure. With a slight smile on his features, the boy circled once, twice and once more again, fascination warring with his fearful revulsion at the similarities he saw. Was that a cloak or a hoody? Was the leaf that seemed to jut from the stone pocket really a leaf, or perhaps a Wispa wrapper? Why a stave, of all weapons, and not a sword or an axe, or countless other weapons? He found his mind thinking that if he had wandered into the swamp with a sword made of Ael magic, then the statue would be different. Shuddering, Celtic made the stave vanish with a vague thought, his eyes probing into the shadows. Was that a man watching him from afar?
“Hello?” The figure shifted slightly, perhaps to show that it was not a statuette, as the boy had imagined it to be. But besides this single motion the figure seemed as still as the statue he stood beside. Turning to make sure whether there were no other figures, Celtic almost leapt a step away when the statue turned to him.
Death lies in the Temple and none can avoid it. He watched the stone lips writhe, heard the voice in his head, and still could not believe what he was seeing. He had seen much. Perhaps too much, but never had a statue, almost of himself, turned to warn him of the danger ahead. The Rainbow Rose is ahead of you, Ael, but you must steel yourself for what must be done
. “What is that?” Somehow, speaking aloud seemed the sanest thing to do.
Do you understand the purpose of Life? Of all things living and their one, single birthright? Celtic nodded, hefting the rucksack on his back as he eyed the figure. Still they stayed motionless. Then you understand that the only true claim a living thing can have in existence is that it must die, and that is its right. Again the boy nodded. This truly was a desolate land, full of mysteries that even made him wilt under his cool exterior.
“I know of death, and of the rights of the living, and of the happenings of those between the two.” He said. The statue of him – for it was obviously him – nodded in understanding, the lips quirking into a half-smile. “That man in the distance… what is he?” He had the feeling that the figure was not really a man.
That answer will lie onwards, where the attic is. There you may find the Rainbow Rose. But beware Ael that even the Forever can die, and that even Death can live. When you walk, and where, there can be no boundaries. No rules and exceptions. What lies ahead is what lies behind, and what is remembered can be forgotten. And time, the statue began to return to its normal posture, and Celtic had the feeling that time was running out. Time that cannot kill the Forever can change it, as time can change Death into memory.
“And of the attic… can it be?” He turned to see that the figure in the shaded distance was gone. Due to this he missed the look of absolute fear that riddled the statue’s face. It was the look of a ten year old that finally learns that there are creatures in the attic that watch him from dark corners, following him in the dusk of winter to haunt him wherever he went. It was, to be said bluntly, a thing that would have made Celtic think twice about even going onwards. It was his face, full of anxiety and childhood fears.
Know that change comes with every storm, Celtic of Ael. Know it well.